I stumbled off the porch after him. I regained my balance just in time to see the shaved-headed thug turn away from the door and come for me. He hit me in the stomach first, and when I bent over with my lunch in my throat, he really clobbered me with another one of those head punches.
I have a hard time remembering much about what happened after that, but I think I know the gist of it. The barrel-chested guy got to his feet and kicked me a couple of times in revenge. Then, muttering with annoyance, both men headed for the door again.
And I got up again and went after them.
A pattern developed. Again and again and, yes, again, I flung myself ineffectually at these two sadistic gorillas. Again and again and, yes, again, they hammered me to the damp earth and kicked me where I lay beneath the pattering rain. Then we repeated the process. I don't know how many times. By the end, I think, these guys were staying around just to watch the show. Standing there with their hands on their hips, shaking their heads in disbelief, laughing in wonder, as I clawed my way up off the pavement one more time in order to stagger toward them and get myself pummeled and battered and kicked back down.
So it was, in that rainy Nevada backwater, that I became admirable, beaten to jelly in the mud outside a whorehouse door, trying to buy Weiss another second, another minute, to do whatever it was he had to do.
44.
Weiss went down the brothel stairs, into the lounge, into the shadows. He grabbed the little madam by the arm and dragged her out of her office. The blood from his hand stained the sleeve of her brown cardigan.
"Hey," she snarled at him.
"Shut up," said Weiss. "Where's Kristy?"
Her eyes flitted to the front door. She was waiting for the two enforcers to arrive from across the lane.
Weiss gripped her arm hard, dragged her closer.
"You're hurting me!"
"Come on," he said. He shook her. Her football tits stood solid, never wobbled, but her wig came askew, curls covering one eye.
"In the back," she told him.
"What room?"
"I don't know."
She knew. He glanced out the door. He saw the enforcers charging. He saw me step in front of them. He figured he didn't have much time. He shoved the madam away.
He plunged deeper into the shadowy lounge. From the corner of his eyes, he caught the flutter of fabric on every side of him as girls drew back against the walls. In the center of the room, in the island of light, the two bikers stood straight, holding their pool cues—ready, in a casual sort of way, to beat him to death if the need arose. But he went right by them. They let him pass.
He saw the door at the rear. He went for it. He tried the doorknob. It wouldn't turn. He looked over his shoulder. The enforcers were now pounding me into the mud. He didn't think it would take them long to finish up. He faced front, lifted his foot, and planted a kick just beneath the knob.
The door flew in. He was through.
Now he was in a hallway lit by red light. There were doors on either side of him. He grabbed the nearest knob. Threw the door open. Went to the next door. Threw that open too. He marched down the hall to the next door, then the next. He threw the doors open. In each room, he saw what he saw—quick, chaotic. Tumbling glimpses of raw human meat hinged together. A half second of flesh and confusion, the red light bathing everything. There were snarls and cries. A woman on her hands and knees. A man shackled to bedposts. Dark circles of wide open mouths. Damp patches of pubic hair. Straining limbs, straining faces. Scalding nakedness without tenderness or glamour. Nakedness like a blow.
Voices rose around him. Men shouted threats. Women spat rough, ugly curses. The smell of sweat and sex washed over him. The red light washed over him.
He kept going. Any second he expected the enforcers to barge in behind him, to grab him, beat him down, drag him out. But they didn't come so he kept on. Storming down the hall. Throwing open doors. A woman on her knees, her face impaled. A fat man squatting. A trio of sodomists tangled in a mess of flesh.
Then, up ahead of him, near the end of the corridor, one door opened on its own. A whore in spangled red panties stepped out to see what the commotion was. She was young, maybe thirty. A sharp face framed with long hair dyed blond. A small body, painfully thin but with large round breasts, implants, bare. She saw Weiss. Startled fear came into her eyes. That's what gave her away.
He pulled up short, his heart pounding, his lungs work- ing hard. He and the whore looked at each other. Shouts and cries and curses filled the air around them.
"You talk to me or you talk to him," Weiss told her, breathless. "You know who's following me, right? You talk to me or you talk to him."
The fear in the whore's eyes turned to terror.
Then the lounge door banged open and the two enforcers rushed in.
The whore glanced around Weiss's shoulder. He turned to follow the glance and saw the enforcers at the end of the hall. They were lined up shoulder to shoulder to block his way. They were pressing their big fists into their big palms. Their pale eyes were gleaming. They were getting ready to come for him.
But they were too late. Weiss had already said what he had to say. He turned back to the whore.
"It's all right," she told the two thugs. She lifted her chin. "Forget it. It's all right."
Weiss took another look at them. The light died in their eyes. He smiled. The enforcers punched their palms, turned around and went back through the door, and were gone.
The other doors began slamming shut all along the corridor. The cursing stopped. A murmuring quiet fell over the hallway. Finally, Weiss was alone in the red light with the bare-breasted whore. Kristy.
"Come on," she said.
She slipped back into her room. He followed her.
45.
There was a little fat man hopping around the middle of the floor. He was pulling his jockey shorts over his leg, then up to cover his bare ass. When Weiss came in, he grabbed the rest of his clothes off a chair and held them against his chest. Weiss stood aside and the man carried his clothes out into the hall without saying a word.
Weiss shut the door on him. He faced the girl in the redspangled panties.
They were in a narrow box of a room. The bed, a queen size, almost filled it. There was a two-drawer bedside table with a lamp and a radio and a vase of flowers on it. There was a window, covered with blinds and with some kind of lacy stuff draped over the top of it. Betadine, baby wipes, condoms, and a pair of fur-covered handcuffs were piled discreetly in a little wicker basket in a corner on the floor. A cheap blanket—a trick towel—lay over the floral bedspread. It had a gray stain at the center of it.
Weiss went to the basket. Reached in, pulled out a baby wipe. He swabbed the blood off his hand. The cut wasn't deep. The bleeding was almost done.
He lifted his chin at the whore. He was still out of breath. "Listen...," he said.
Tense, the whore gestured to the bedside table. Weiss looked. He saw the lamp, the radio, the vase. But he knew how these places worked. There was an intercom in one of the drawers. The madam would sit in her office and listen in while her whores negotiated the price of their party. That way, the madam knew the girls weren't holding back her share.
"I guess everyone can listen, then," he said.
"I don't want any trouble," said the whore.
"Yeah, I got that message."
"I mean, you know..."
He nodded curtly. He knew. She didn't want the Shad-owman coming after her. She'd tell him whatever he wanted to hear as long as he would keep the killer away.
He looked down at her. He felt suddenly weary. He was weary at the sight of her, skinny as some child on a charity poster, but with that fake blond hair and those fake tits hanging out as if she didn't give a damn. He could see how scared she was. Julie had warned her he was coming and had warned her about the killer trailing in his wake. She was scared as hell, and Weiss was using that to get her to talk. That made him feel weary too.
The
killer's right, he thought. We make a good team.
"Olivia called you," he said.
She nodded eagerly, her sharp ferret features going up and down fast. He wished she'd cover herself.
He tossed the bloody wipe back into the basket. "Just tell me where Julie is and I'll get out of here."
The hooker's shoulders came up around her ears. "Christ, I don't know that. She doesn't tell me that. She just calls."
"You mean she hasn't called since you talked to Olivia?"
"Right. Not since her sister. Right."
"So that's why you had them set the muscle on me."
"I didn't know what to do. Olivia told me you were coming, and I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I was scared if you came, then ... you know ... he would come too..."
"So you didn't give Julie her sister's message."
"She hasn't called," the whore said again. She was almost pleading.
Weiss rubbed his eyes. Weary. "She's gonna call you, though—right?"
The girl looked around as if she'd find the answer in the little room somewhere. "I guess so. I guess. I don't know. How can I know? She always does."
Weiss had his breath back finally. His heart was slowing down. "All right. I get you. It's all right."
"She just hasn't called. I'd tell you. I would."
"All right. I get you. It's all right." His eyes went around the room as he thought it over. "I saw a motel on the way in," he said. "The Frontier."
"Yeah, sure," said the whore. "I know the Frontier."
"Call me there. When she calls you, you call me there."
"Okay. Okay, I will, I swear."
"And tell her what I said, what her sister told you. She can play it either way. She can stay or go."
"I will. I'll tell her. And look, this guy..."
"He won't touch you. Just do what I tell you, you'll be fine."
"I will. I'll call you as soon as I hear. I swear." She was that afraid of the killer. She'd do anything Weiss told her.
"All right," he said. He looked at her. He couldn't keep his eyes from going down to her naked tits. She responded with a gesture. It was just a small motion of her hand, but he knew she was offering herself to him. That's how scared she was. She'd do anything.
"Just tell her," said Weiss. "She can wait for me or not. Stay or go. Either way, this is the end of it."
46.
A few minutes later, I felt his hand on my arm. He hauled me up out of the mud. He set me on my feet. I swayed there, blinking out through swollen eyes.
"Nice going, kid," Weiss said. "You held them. Nice going."
I nodded stupidly. I swiped a handful of blood and snot off my upper lip. Threw it down onto Damnation Street.
Weiss snorted. "You all right? Can you breathe?"
I tried it. I clutched my ribs. They hurt when I inhaled.
"Yeah," I gasped.
"You're all right," said Weiss.
I grunted. I massaged my jaw. It hurt when I tried to talk.
"You gonna be all right to drive?" he asked me.
I nodded again, wincing. I rubbed the back of my head. It hurt when I did nothing.
"All right," said Weiss. "Well, listen, drive the hell out of here. Don't stay in town. Head west, for Reno. Keep to the interstate. You gotta puke or pass out or something, pull over. First motel you see, go in and wash yourself up. Sleep it off. Go home."
I clutched my ribs and then my face and then my ribs again. I began to shuffle slowly toward my car.
Weiss took my arm, held me up, helped me along. "Don't worry," he said. "It'll feel much worse in the morning."
I laughed—then cried out in pain.
He opened the Hyundai's door. He lowered me into the seat behind the wheel. I sat there, staring. After a while I turned on the ignition. Then I sat there, staring some more.
Finally, when I could, I turned. I looked up at Weiss. He looked in at me through the window.
"All right?" he said. "Yeah," I said.
"Nice going, kid," he said again. "Get out of here."
I put the car in gear and drove away, heading for the interstate.
Weiss went on alone.
Part Six
The Midnight Nowhere
47.
He came to the middle of nowhere at midnight. He'd been driving for hours through the rain.
He'd spent a night and a day at the Frontier, the Union City motel, waiting for the hooker's call. Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, staring at the water running down the windowpanes, staring at the TV news. It was a long night and a long day. He tried not to think about what was coming, but he did think about it. He thought about how it had felt to have the killer close to him in the airport. He thought about how they would be close again, soon.
Then the phone rang and it was the hooker from the House of Dreams, Kristy. It was sunset by then. Weiss sat on the edge of the bed. He held the phone to his ear. He watched the windows as the lifeless daylight went out of them and the streams of rain began to glitter in the beams of headlights passing on the main drag outside. He listened to the whore's instructions. There would be a house at the end of the drive, she said. Julie would come to him there. She wouldn't run away. She would stay, and that's where they would finish it.
Weiss put the phone back in the cradle. He sat and watched the blackness at the window, the glittering lines of water on the glass. Finally, he pushed off his knees and stood. He pulled his shoulder holster off the back of a chair, slipped it on, secured the .38 beneath his arm. He pulled his trench coat on over it. He went out to his car.
He drove north as the whore had told him. North and then east. The roads got smaller and smaller, each smaller road coming off the larger one before it as if they were the branches of a tree. The last road was nothing but broken macadam and stretches of dirt. Rain on the pavement, mud in the spaces between. Nothing, just nothing, on either side. Nothing in front of him, nothing behind. Weiss started to wonder if the whore had sent him wrong. If the killer had gotten to her and she'd sent him out of the way.
Then there it was, just as she said it would be: a town—or a cluster of houses anyway, houses and trailers huddled together in the dirt at the base of a hill. There was no road sign to announce its presence. The place didn't even seem to have a name. The first he knew of it were the shadows at his window: an ancient gas station, an auto body shop, a small hotel—all closed up, all dark. Behind them, there was a small grid of paved lanes tapering into dust and dead ends. Weiss couldn't imagine what the place was doing here. But here it was, the middle of nowhere.
He followed the whore's directions. He drove the Taurus down a street, then down another street. He found the house midway between one corner and the next. It was small, a run-down, gray one-story with fake brick siding. There was a patch of lawn, a couple of aspens growing up around it. The aspens grew straight and stood tall above the low roof.
He parked the car in front of the house. Buzzed down the window. He could hear the aspen leaves whispering in the rain.
He sat and watched the place. It was dark. It had a big front window by the door and a smaller window off to one side. Blinds were drawn down over both windows. There was no light behind the blinds.
He sat like that while midnight came and went. His eyes moved over the area. The other houses all around were dark—dark shapes with no lighted windows. There were cars parked along the street, all empty. There was no light anywhere. There were no signs of life at all.
His thoughts went to the killer. There had been no trace of him on the roads coming here. He might've come ahead. He might already be sitting in one of the parked cars along the street. Or he might be inside the house, waiting for Weiss in the darkness.
Weiss made a noise. He was angry at himself for being so afraid. But there it was: he wanted to go on living, like anyone.
Grunting, he pushed the door open. He hoisted his big body out of the car.
The aspens whispered louder as a soft wind blew.
He felt the wind on his face. He felt the rain in his hair. He walked heavily up the front path to the gray wooden door. He tried the knob. The door swung open. He stepped into the house.
He stood very still in the deep shadows just within the threshold. He scanned the unlit room, trying to pick out shapes. He saw a sofa maybe, maybe a chair, a lamp. It was very dark. He wasn't sure of anything.
After a while he realized he'd been holding his breath, waiting for the blow to fall. He let the breath out. He found the light switch on the wall beside him. He flipped it up. A dull yellow light went on in the ceiling. He looked around.
He was in a small living room. Scarred paneled walls. A yellow sofa and a brown chair. A phone on a phone table. A television set on a stand. A wooden floor with a braid rug worn raw.
There was a coffee table in front of the sofa. There was a mug on the table, a yellow mug with brown coffee scum at the bottom of it. There was lipstick on the rim of the mug. That got to him—her lipstick.
He checked out the rest of the house, turning lights on as he went. There was a kitchen off to the right. Linoleum counters and scarred wooden cabinets. A card table set up in a corner with a couple of folding chairs. A couple of windows looking out the side of the house and one on the front, that smaller one he'd seen from outside.
There was a door here with another window, this one uncovered. He twisted the knob. This door was unlocked too. He held it open. Outside, there was a small alley of turf separating this house from the next. The alley led one way to a small patch of backyard, the other way to the front of the house. He could hear the rain falling into the alley grass.
He closed the door. He turned out the light and left the kitchen. He walked back across the living room to the bedroom on the other side of the house.
Damnation Street Page 23